Sorrow
by doc100
Summary: Michael tries to cope with the fallout of Nate's death. Reaction piece to the season 6, mid-season finale, "Desperate Times." Please read enclosed author's note regarding updates on "Apathy."


**Sorrow** by doc

_**Summary:**__ Michael tries to cope with the fallout of Nate's death._

_We each cope with life's stresses in a different fashion. Some are strong, some weak. Others scream and shout, while some retreat into a world all their own. But sometimes the events and sorrows of life become so overwhelming that they lead us to express our emotions in a manner diametrically opposed to our norm._

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_**AN #1:**__ This story takes place after the events of the mid-season 6 summer finale, "Desperate Times." Nate has died, and in the course of pursuing his killer, Michael and the gang discover Tom Card's betrayal._

_**AN #2:**__ For those of you waiting for the next chapter of "Apathy," it will be delayed a bit. Life has been really brutal of late, and I'm afraid if I compose the next chapter, I just might kill off all our favorite characters._

_I feel I can really empathize with Michael's character of late, hence the inspiration for this current story. Four weeks ago, a very close family friend (he's like one of my kids) lost his stepfather in an unexpected and senseless death. I've been offering assistance and trying to help him cope with the fallout. Two weeks ago Saturday, I lost one of my beloved "4-legged" kids. He had to have an emergent, serious and major surgery. The procedure produced less than optimal results. Despite the valiant efforts of the vet and myself, he died four days later. And as if that weren't enough, I lost my grandmother one week ago Saturday. Her death wasn't unexpected, as she was 95-years old, but I am saddened to lose her all the same. She was my only living grandparent and my last link to that wonderful generation. My only happiness is in knowing she feels no more pain, & her eyesight has been fully restored. She has also been reunited with the love of her life. My grandparents' love story was one of those rare, epic and beautiful tales. I know they are spending unending hours in each other's arms._

_So, if you would be so kind as to forgive my delay, I promise to continue on with "Apathy" once my mind is in a better emotional state. They say that bad things happen in "3's." Here's hoping my bad news is now complete. I'm becoming rather leery of Saturdays, as all three deaths occurred on a Saturday, within 1-2 weeks of each other._

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_**Rating:**__ Teen. I debated about this rating, as the story has a more mature theme. That said, the words are more poetic than graphic, so I decided to post it here._

'_*****'**_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own Burn Notice or any of the characters. I don't profit from them for sure, I wish! I just take them out and play with them on occasion before replacing them safe and sound back on the shelf._

_I want to thank Goldenleaf 1510 for proofing my story. She did an amazing job of finding my grammar and punctuation errors. She also made some great word substitution suggestions._

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**Sorrow**

"_When I wished to sing of love, it turned to sorrow. And when I wished to sing of sorrow, it was transformed for me into love." – Franz Schubert_

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Late Night  
An Abandoned House  
Somewhere in Panama

Sam stumbled down the back hall; arms stretched high above his head, as he yawned away his sleepiness. They'd divided the night into four-hour shifts, as they took turns guarding Tyler Gray with an ear to their surroundings for further attack. Michael had insisted on pulling the first shift in the hope of gathering more information from Gray. Sam thought it less than wise to leave Michael alone with the sniper who had slain his brother, especially since Gray regarded Nate as mere 'collateral damage' in the successful assassination plot of Anson Fullerton.

He stopped off in the dilapidated kitchen on his way to the living area. They'd had the foresight to purchase a thermos of coffee as a means to stay awake during their assigned night shifts. That hot caffeinated beverage was now calling his name. He poured a cup of the black steamy liquid and swallowed a mouthful, enjoying the sting of bitterness on his tongue. As another yawn escaped his lips, he mused that a spoonful of dark-roasted grounds applied directly to his inner cheek might be more effective. A few more swallows downed, he topped off his cup and headed toward Michael and their prisoner.

Sam and Jesse had decided to pair Fiona with Michael during his assigned shift, hoping to ward off further retaliation. They didn't trust Mike to keep his emotions in check with his brother's assassin restrained in the same room. Since learning of Card's betrayal, Michael had been even more edgy and angry, if that were possible. 'Revenge' had become Michael's middle name of late. Brady's selfless sacrifice to save them all had added even more fuel to that fire. Approaching the doorway, Sam heard yelling coming from the interior of the room. He scurried inside to find Fiona hanging on Mike's arm.

"Hey folks," Sam beamed with cheer, trying to temper the overbearing tension of the room, "…what's all the noise about?"

"Nothing," Michael groused, jerking his arm loose from Fiona's grasp.

Fi eyed Michael with one-part frustration and two-parts concern. Glancing toward Sam, she rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders hoping to entice some sane dialogue into their strained situation.

Sam casually sipped his coffee, as he studied the room, then sauntered over to their restrained captive. He noted several new bruises across Gray's cheeks, a black eye & a couple of missing teeth. Gray's left eye was almost swollen shut, but he pierced Sam with pure contempt from the other.

"Well now, boys and girls…looks like we have a bit of a stand off here." Sam's lighthearted reply did little to assuage their moods. "Anyone for coffee? It's not exactly Starbucks, but it'll do in a pinch."

"I think your friend's had enough caffeine for a lifetime," Gray spat out each word, a line of blood and drool dripping down his chin to pool on his pant leg.

Michael lunged out the sniper, "If you know what's good for you…."

Fiona shot up from her position on the floor, trying to intercept the dueling duo for the umpteenth time that night. Not that she really cared if Michael killed the bastard, but she knew they needed him alive to corroborate their story about Card to the CIA. She'd spent the last several hours trying to pry Michael off the SOB, a nearly thankless task due to her petite size and his insatiable rage. By her estimation, they'd won about equal rounds in the bout. Gray was lucky he only had a few new bruises and a missing tooth or two. She was exhausted, sore and sweaty. All she wanted was a warm bath, one of Michael's comfortable shirts, their bed at the loft and at least a week to enjoy them. Michael was optional at that point, as she'd had about enough of his sulking fury.

Sam, for his part, set his coffee cup aside and extended his arms to engage his friend. "That's enough, Mike," Sam bellowed in a commanding voice, "…I think both of you have gone too many rounds already. Why don't you and Fi head to bed," Sam jerked his head toward Fiona, motioning toward the bedrooms.

"Trust me," Michael pushed past Sam's physical barrier, heading for Gray, "…I'm not nearly done…."

Sam spun around, grabbing Mike's fist before it could engage with Gray's face. Squeezing his grip tighter around Michael's hand, Sam held on until he saw his friend grimaced in pain. "I mean it, Mikey…it's time for you to hit the sack." Michael glared at Sam a moment longer, before finally relenting and stalking toward the back hall.

"I'll try to talk him down," Fiona sighed with exhaustion, "…if not, I'll tie him to the bed until morning." She winked at her friend in amusement. Shaking his head, Sam released a lighthearted chuckle, before returning Fiona's wink.

"Call me, if you need any help with the ropes!" He called out to her retreating form. An image of Michael tied to the bed with Fiona standing dominantly over him flashed through Sam's mind. He shuddered in disgust to rid his mind of the unwelcome image.

"Wonder if there's any bleach around here?" Sam muttered to no one in particular.

"Whaaat?" Gray slurred in response.

"Nothing," Sam shook his head, "…just wanted some bleach to sterilize my brain...oh, never mind!"

Gray grunted an incomprehensible response, before his head lulled forward in fatigue. Sam offered the man some water, but received no response. Sam prayed it was a good sign he'd have a quiet night, before Jesse took over his shift.

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In the bedroom, Fiona poured fresh water into the old ceramic washbowl. Setting the pitcher aside, she mentally thanked Jesse for picking up the bar of soap and paper towels when he made his earlier coffee run. It certainly wasn't her fantasy, oversized tub full of bubbles, but it was better than nothing. At least, she could freshen up and wash the grime from her face. As she dabbed away the dirt and sweat from her exposed skin, she glanced up into the broken mirror hanging over the washstand. Behind her reflection, she caught sight of the intense, ice blue eyes watching her every move. She looked away from his penetrating stare and made herself busy wiping up the water droplets from the old wooden washstand. Not that the water could do much harm; the old wood was worn and scarred along the top surface. Bits of the finish had peeled away and dirt was caked in the jagged cracks and creases. She lifted the towel away from the surface and took note of all the dirt and dust. Reaching for another towel, she continued to scrub away the filth, all the while avoiding Michael's stare. She didn't need to look up to see his presence; she could feel him behind her. The overwhelming power and emotion radiated off him in waves like the heat on a summer sidewalk.

Her task finally complete, Fi tossed the paper towels aside and stepped back against the sturdy wall of Michael's chest, physically demanding he clear her personal space. He refused to give an inch, instead encircling her upper arms with his large powerful hands.

"Michael," she questioned, "…did you want to clean up?" He continued to stare at her by way of the mirror, face masked and unreadable. "Fine," she sighed, "…just let me remove the bands from my hair, and I'll be out of your way."

She had long since tired of the game of coaxing him to talk. As she reached up to remove the elastic bands from her hair, he gently pushed her hands aside and took about the task himself. He pulled and twisted, as he fought with the restraints, but she remained still, figuring it was a task he needed to pursue in lieu of other vengeful thoughts. The first band finally came loose along with several strands of her hair. He set the band aside and began working on the second. She squeezed her eyes shut, grimacing in pain, as he tugged at the elastic band. She wanted to reach up to accomplish the task herself, but remained rigid within the circle of his arms. When the hair band finally gave way, she relaxed her taut facial muscles and stared back into the mirror. He lifted his fingers to her crown, gently smoothing the tangles of hair and massaging her scalp in the process.

It occurred to her, as his fingers played in her hair, that they had barely touched in the six weeks since her release from jail. That wasn't to say they hadn't shared a hug or kiss, or even made love a few times, but in each instance his emotional attachment was minimal and determined, businesslike even. Gone was his gentle lingering caress to her skin and lips. He met a need, nothing more, nothing less. He was so driven to find Nate's killer and right a wrong that little time was given to other pursuits. He owed it to Nate and to his mother. Other day-to-day activities had become robotic and mundane. He ate only when she prodded, spoke little, and slept fitfully, if at all.

She glanced into the mirror, when his fingers fell away from her hair. She already missed that simple touch. He just stared at her again; his face a mask, but his blue eyes swimming with emotion.

"What do you want, Michael?" She whispered in the hushed tones of a prayer.

His eyes darted away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She turned in his arm, looking directly into his eyes. "What do you want?"

He remained silent, arms dropped to his side. She tenderly cupped his face; her thumb brushing against the warm skin of his cheek, before tripping over the stubble of his evening beard. His eyes followed hers, searing into her soul, trying to communicate without words. Her fingertips traced the dark lines under his eyes, trying to erase them. When was the last time he'd slept? She noticed the new abrasion over his right eye and the dirt smeared across his cheek. She reached for a clean towel, dampened it in the basin and then swabbed it gently across his face. She dabbed away the blood from the cut, then wiped off the smudge of dirt. Turning back to the basin, she wet the rag again and applied soap. Methodically, she cleaned away the dirt, the grime and the sweat from his veiled face.

He silently watched on.

When she was finished, she breathlessly posed her question again, "What do you want, Michael?" She sealed the question with a light brushing of her lips to his chin.

His hands curved round her arms, fingers digging into her biceps. He tugged her closer, lifting her up on tiptoes. She flinched as his nails pinched and bruised her skin, but he pulled her closer still. His lips a finger's breadth away from hers; she felt the warm of his breath as it fanned her face. And then he paused and stilled his movements, his eyes penetrating hers with his gaze.

"Michael?" Her arms ached at his grasp, while her lips longed for his touch. She asked once more, "What do YOU want?"

He pulled her flush to his chest, his lips descending on her with a bruising fierceness. His fingers bit into her tender skin, drawing blood and causing her to cry out. He pulled away, releasing his grip and dropping her to her feet. Turning away from her, he walked toward the bedroom window, gazing out into the pitch black, starless night. His posture was rigid, his muscles taut. He remained silent and withdrawn, escaping back into his own personal world of self-recrimination and torment.

Fi crossed the room to stand behind him, laying her palm flush against his back. He flinched at her touch. Rebuffed again, she was physically exhausted and tired of the emotional game. Just as she turned toward the bed, she tried one last time.

"Michael?"

"I suppose you're going to abandon and leave me as well," his words were soft and haunting, cutting her to the core. His eyes never left the expansive view of the distant night sky.

"What?" She turned back to him, as if burned.

"Just like all the others," he drew in a deep breath, "…Larry and Card both betrayed me. My father could barely stand to look at me. My mother," his voice cracked on her name, but he quickly recovered, "…she won't even return my calls. She can't stand to be in the same room with me, much less allow me to touch her. You would've thought I was a flaming fire the way she pulled away." He inhaled roughly through his nose, emotions barely contained, "And then there's Nate, he di…," he couldn't voice the word, so chose another, "…um, he left, and it was all my fault. So I don't blame you, if you…."

"Michael, what are you talking about?!" Fi tossed aside her exhaustion, exchanging it instead for irritation and pain. Her voice raged with intensity, "Do you think I would've followed you all the way to Panama, if I didn't care?!"

He didn't budge from his spot by the window; neither did he offer a word of retort. His arms clenched and unclenched across his chest. His eyes remained vacant and lost in the darkness.

Fi felt her inner fury build and explode. How dare he question her loyalty, and even worse, her love! Didn't she go to prison to free him from his bonds?

She stormed toward him fists clenched, intent on making him understand her feelings. She didn't stop until she stood before him, toe-to-toe; her arm drawn back ready to knock him off his feet, if necessary. When she looked up into his face, her whole demeanor deflated. He looked like a distraught little boy who had lost everyone and everything important in his life.

"Michael," she whispered softly, reaching up to caress his cheeks, "…how could you ever think I'd leave you?" Tears flashed in her eyes, welling and dropping down her cheeks. He'd been hurt so often by those who should've cared the most; he'd built a wall around his heart. He was an expert at portraying an emotionless façade, calculating, cold, unwavering, even if it was all false bravado. Only recently had he allowed the wall to crumble and give way to the cries of his heart. And what had that vulnerability cost him, more pain from those who should have loved him most. She swore if Maddie were there at that moment, she would've told her a thing or two about unconditional love.

Her hands slid from his cheeks to his shoulders, then encircled his neck. She felt him melt into her embrace, as he clung to her tightly. Standing in the quiet room, each lost in the other's presence, she slowly became aware of his movements. His face turned into her neck, lips searching out her skin. He nibbled at the delicate flesh, before sucking more greedily. His hand burrowed under her shirt, skimming along her side and cupping her breast. She hadn't expected his response and flinched away from the contact. He was persistent in his intent, his arms holding her tighter and his hands more brazen. She remembered him stating once that violence was her foreplay, but she'd never known him to push beyond the limits of her mildest protest. Struggling against his muscular grasp, she finally pulled away, placing a modicum of space between them. His eyes never left her face, his gaze questioning, despondent and needy.

She took another step back smoothing her shirt down over her stomach. His chin dropped to his chest, as his eyes closed with rejection.

"Michael," she tried to lift his chin, but he fought her off.

"We're on a mission," she tried to explain. "Jesse's next door sleeping and Sam's in the other room with your hostage. We don't know who might come bursting through the door in the next second!"

He wilted before her eyes. His body no longer able to hold its own weight, he dropped onto the nearby bed. She followed him, afraid he might collapse on the floor. Standing before him, she gently lifted his chin, the fight now gone from his being. His eyes were hollow and covered in a sheen of tears. She leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead with lithe lips whisper soft as an angel.

"Whaaat do yooou want…Michael?" The broken words stuttered out in a breath across his skin.

"Yooou," the hushed word was spoken with barely a croak of sound, "…I can't lose yooou." He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her chest.

Her fingers strummed through his hair, taming the unruly strands, before her cheek came to rest on his crown. "You won't lose me, I promise," she swore an oath. "You couldn't get rid of me, if you wanted to," she tugged on his ear for good measure, "…you should know that by now."

She felt a slight smile form against her chest. A moment passed, before she heard a muffled response, "Pleeez."

"What?"

"Pleeease," he lifted his face to hers, his eyes pleading.

"Please what?"

"I neeeed you," his eyes darted away, before drifting back, embarrassment burning red on his cheeks, "…I need to feel you…to know you…um, we…are real and alive."

She stroked an errant lock of hair from his forehead, before nodding with an indulgent, but loving smile. As she stepped away, he gasped in disappointment, only to have her whisper, "Be right back."

She locked the bedroom door, and turning back to him, raised a finger of warning to her lips for quiet. She approached him slowly, her eyes focused on his. Standing before him, her legs abutting the mattress between his, she waited for him to respond. He just sat there quietly and unsure, staring into her eyes with an intensity born of admiration and love.

When he didn't move, she leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss upon his lips, her hair cascading in ringlets and curls around his face. He closed his eyes and reveled in the moment, breathing in all the life she to had to offer. Her fingers drifted from his shoulders to his chest, as she deftly undid the buttons on his shirt. Pushing the garment off his shoulders, she drew him close again, her cheek rubbing against the soft strand of his hair. She felt him inhale deeply and then release a harmonious sigh on the longest expiration; it sounded more like sweet music than merely the sustenance of life. As she stood upright, she reached for his hands, sliding them under the edge of her shirt and placing them firmly against her skin. Lifting her arms high overhead, she wiggled her fingers in the air like a schoolgirl. A brief giggle of laughter escaped her lips, but was quickly replaced by a groan of contentment, as his hands snaked up her sides. His fingers ghosted over her skin raising goose bumps in their wake. When he reached the barrier of her undergarment, his fingers nimbly released the hook with practiced ease. He drew both garments upward, his thumbs briefly meandering to stroke her breasts. Throwing her head back, she sighed with longing, arching into his hands. He tossed her clothes aside as his lips found that favorite spot on her neck again, the one that made her shiver and hum in his grasp. She cradled him tightly to her neck, her fingers instinctively cupping the back of his head. A fleeting thought entered her mind, as to why she'd protested his initial advances, but quickly passed when all thinking ceased to exist.

Michael drew her to him, pulling her onto the bed. Clothing magically disappeared to the far reaches of the room as their lips touched, tasted and returned for more. He hurried ahead at a frantic pace, rushing for answers, searching for clues on an adrenaline high, much as he'd been doing since Nate's death and even before Anson entered their lives. His lips melded to hers in a fury of need. He took and tasted with the primal urge of a starving man trying to quench his hunger for revenge and quell the unending spasms of pain.

Through a haze, Fiona sensed the raw emotions driving his erratic behaviors, as his movements became more desperate and rough. She pulled back from him, trying to gain space and control. He pushed forward, determined to pursue to the end. She rolled atop him, pinning his hands to the headboard and catching him off guard. He blinked in confusion trying to clear the daze, before his eyes once again registered hurt. She smiled softly, stroking his face in reassurance, then bent down to whisper in his ear. And as she spoke, each word was followed by a kiss.

"Slow down…feel…breath."

Mesmerized by her soft words and gentle touch, he followed her direction. Allowing himself to revel in the scarce commodities of time, peace and pleasure, his movements slowed. His touches now gentle and inquisitive, his fingers lingered over sensitive patches of soft skin, his lips mapped her terrain, from the valley of her breasts to the curved hills of her shoulders. He travelled down the venous roads and tributaries of her arms to the individual islands of her fingers, paying close attention to each minute point. Just as she thought his mapping was through, his hands discovered the trail of her legs, following them back to the taut plains of her abdomen. She tugged on his arms, pulled at his hair, trying to bring him back to her lips, but he was undeterred in his pursuit to memorize every inch of her.

She gave up her demands to his, relaxing into his touch, feeling their connection. And when he'd scaled the mountaintops back to her mouth, the movements slowed and stilled. He explored her with the tenderness and sweetness of long held lovers. And when they joined, he pulled back to gaze in her eyes as they drifted shut in pleasure. His fingertips lightly grazed her eyelids; as his lips softly demanded to, "Open them."

Fiona fought to comply with his request, her lids fluttering, before staying open. He studied her with an awe of reverence, worshipping her with his every movement. Their bodies spoke the words of love, their voices rarely uttered, and when they finally broke, shuddering in each others arms, Michael began to cry. He collapsed into her, hiding his face in the crook of neck, ashamed at his emotional display.

She tried to soothe him, speaking words of comfort and love. He refused to leave the solace of her neck. Hugging him tightly to her chest, she finally understood the tears were for his brother. In the month since Nate's death, he'd never cried. There were flashes of dampness on his cheeks and the occasional sheen of tears. His words spoke of sorrow, blame and regret. His actions displayed guilt and revenge, but he'd never once fully let go of his rigid emotional control. His tears drenched her skin, running down her shoulder and back. He silently trembled and shook, never making a sound. Seconds turned to long minutes and still he shivered and quaked. She held on tightly, allowing only her fingers to stray over the warm skin of his back.

When finally his body stilled and the tears dried, he tried to turn away, muttering his apology. "Sorry," his voice was low and hoarse, "…I didn't mean to…."

She held tight, preventing his movement, "It's okay…I think those tears were a long time coming."

"It's just Nate…my fault…."

"I know what you believe," her fingers combed through his hair trying to relax his taut muscles and calm the raw emotions, "…but it's not your fault. It doesn't matter what your mother says," he tensed in her arms, but she continued on, "…it was Nate's choice to follow you. And he died while trying to protect you, don't take that moment away from him."

"Too heavy," he mumbled against her skin. She bent her leg around his waist pinning him in place.

"You're fine," she turned her face into his, peppering his cheek in kisses. "I've missed this."

"Missed what?" He lifted his head just enough to look in her eye.

"This closeness," her fingers ran the length of his back, causing him to shudder. "It's been too long, what with Anson, prison and Nate."

"Yeeeaaah," he relaxed against her, stifling a yawn. His face came to rest on her shoulder, his fingers rhythmically stroking her skin.

His motions soon ceased, as his breath evened out. His weight fell dead upon her. She knew she needed to move him, but she relished the rare opportunity to hold him. He was such a fitful sleeper of late, moving to and fro, she reckoned it was worth the uncomfortable inconvenience just to see him calm. She watched his eyelids flutter, as he entered a dream and wished him only the best. Her fingers continuously grazed his skin, counting each rib up and down. He so rarely let others tend to him, so she vowed to watch over him in sleep.

'*'

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As the sun crested the horizon bathing the bedroom in light, a knock on the door woke the slumbering couple. Fiona's eyes flicked open, as she took in her surroundings. Sometime during the night she'd nodded off. Michael had shifted his weight in the night, so only his head and shoulders remained nestled on her chest. He was still relaxed in sleep, his breathing slow and steady. It was the longest he'd slept in an eternity, and she prided yourself on the accomplishment.

Hearing footsteps outside their room, she began coaxing him awake. Her left arm encircled his shoulders, while the fingers of her other skimmed through his hair. He remained unfazed by her gentle ministrations, so she softly added words.

"Michael." His body started to stir, but he slumbered on. She began scattering kisses over his head. Her warm breath raising the hair on the back of his neck.

"Michael!" Her voice called out a bit louder. The fingers of her left hand meandered over his skin in a downward journey.

His eyes blinked opened and closed in the early morning sun. Lifting his head from her chest, he studied his strange surroundings. As a yawn escaped, he burrowed his face in her chest, rubbing his nose against her perfumed skin. He wondered how she could still smell like jasmine after the events of the day before. He turned his head to the side, catching her eyes with his. He noted the mirth dancing in her hazel-green depths. He flashed her a lazy smile, indulgently enjoying the massage of her fingers in his hair.

"Hi," she breathlessly whispered.

"Good morning," he smiled back.

"How do you feel?" She allowed her thumb to drift to his lips, grazing over the surface. He sucked it into his mouth, before releasing it to kiss her hand.

"Good," a moment of bewilderment flashed across his face, "…really good. Rested!"

"You needed that," she grabbed his hand as it began to wander. Much as she enjoyed last night, there was business to attend to this morning.

A heavy knock sounded on the door again, this time followed by words. "Rise and shine, sunshine," Sam singsong voice filled the air. "Breakfast will be here in 30!"

"We're up, Sam," Fiona's Irish lilt slipped into her words. Michael brightened at the sound. Her Irish accent only made an appearance when she was raving mad or deliriously happy. An aura of smugness over took him, as he reasoned he was responsible for that joy.

"It doesn't sound like you're up," Sam paused outside the door listening for footsteps.

"I'd step away from the door, Sam," Michael's laughter broke through his words, "...that is unless you have a driving need to hear amorous sounds so early in the morning." Michael winked at Fi, as she covered her laughter more successfully than her blush.

"I'm outta here," Sam's groan was accompanied by retreating footsteps.

Michael sat up in bed, stretching his arms overhead, "Well, I guess we best get up…Panama awaits!"

"I'd rather stay here," Fi mumbled under her breath.

"What?"

"Nothing," she replied, as her feet hit the floor. Just as she was about to stand, Michael tugged on her hand demanding her attention.

"Michael?"

"About last night," adoration shone in his eyes, "…thank you, Fi."

"Your welcome," she winked back, "…anytime…anywhere," she tried out her full-on flirt mode. As she attempted to rise from the bed, he tugged her back again, this time fully onto the bed.

"Michael!" A slight bit of irritation flamed in her voice. He hovered over her, his lips a mere breath away from hers. Slowly he closed the distance for a brief kiss then pulled back.

"I love you, Fi," he kissed her again.

"Me too," she blinked at the tears in her eyes.

"I know you do," he answered sincerely, then flashed an impish grin, "…I never doubted it for a second!"

'_*****'**_

_To be continued…_

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_**AN:**__ I'm afraid this story is not quite complete. I have an idea for one more small section, but I didn't want to distract from the sweetness and emotional closeness of Michael and Fi in this chapter. So I'll add the next part as a small epilogue. I have a driving need to see a beautiful Michael smile. I don't think we've seen one all season. I'm not talking about one of those tight-lipped, closed-mouth grins, but a big beautiful, toothy Michael smile. __**SMILE**__ coming up not chapter! I hope to have the epilogue up in the next few days._


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